48: Chapter 45 Entering the Palace

June 28, 1978, Tehran.

In front of the main gate of the Niavaran Palace stood two rows of Swiss oak trees, transplanted from Europe by Pahlavi twenty years ago. Each tree required a dedicated gardener, imported fertilizer, and watering with treated soft water. Reza sat in the car, looking through the window at the rows of trees, calculating the cost in his mind—the annual expense to maintain this row of trees was enough to put the children of three villages in Khuzestan through elementary school.

This was the essence of the Pahlavi Dynasty; it was never any "White Revolution," just an old skin slapped with a label of modernization.

Reza was wearing an old suit today with loose threads at the cuffs. His leather shoes were wiped clean but not polished, and his hair was combed neatly using cheap hair wax. He carried a gift bag containing two bottles of locally produced pomegranate juice from Ahvaz and a jar of pickled Persia dates—tribute from the Governors Mansion to the King, so shabby that even the guards took an extra look.

"Just this?" Hassan glanced sideways at the gift bag from the passenger seat, saying nothing else.

"Just this," Reza said. "A governor coming to see the King, bringing two bottles of juice—either he is truly poor, or he is truly poor after pretending to be rich. Either way, he poses no threat."

The guards checking identities were not rude, but they weren't warm either; it was standard treatment for a cadet branch prince—neither cold nor hot, just right. Reza cooperated by opening his suitcase for them to inspect. Inside were a change of clothes and a classical Persia poetry collection with a damaged cover—by Rudaki. It looked like it had been read many times; the spine was soft.

The guard glanced at the poetry book, showed no interest, and waved him through.

Once inside the palace, the eunuch leading the way took Reza to a side hall to wait, saying the King was currently meeting with foreign envoys and he would need to wait a moment. Four governors were already sitting in the side hall. Reza recognized two of them, nodded, found a seat on the side, took out the poetry book, and flipped through it with his head down.

He was not actually reading the poetry.

He was observing the other four people.

Sitting in the middle, dressed the most elegantly, was the governor of Fars, the province neighboring Khuzestan, Sheikh Mohammadi. He was in his fifties, a cousin of the King, and had strong connections in the palace. He had clearly come prepared today; his gift was not local produce, but a locked leather suitcase that looked quite substantial. Sitting to his left was the governor of Mazandaran, who was looking down and fiddling with a string of lapis lazuli beads, looking uneasy. The other two Reza did not recognize, but they both looked constrained, their backs held very straight—the posture of someone uncomfortable being at the center of power.

No one spoke voluntarily.

This side hall was essentially a sieve, filtering people according to their rank and closeness of relationship. The palace elites were watching everything—who waited how long, and the order in which they were called in.

Reza waited for nearly forty minutes before he was called into the main hall.

King Pahlavi was sitting on a chair that was not particularly formal. On the bookshelf behind him were several gold-rimmed photo frames. As Reza entered, he lifted his eyelids, did not stand up, and was not particularly warm.

"Sit."

Reza sat down and placed the gift bag on the corner of the coffee table, appearing very casual, as if he had just set it down in passing, not presenting a gift with great solemnity.

"How is Khuzestan recently?" the King asked, his tone as if he were asking about the weather.

"Hot," Reza said. "In June, the ground can bake an egg. The farmers' fields have cracked, and the additional irrigation funding I applied for still hasn't been approved. The Ministry of Agriculture says it's going through the procedure."

The King's brows moved slightly. Complaining was normal, but speaking directly about the Ministry of Agriculture's procedural issues in front of the King took more courage than he had expected—but only a little more, and it was still within an acceptable range.

"Procedures have their reasons," the King said. "Money doesn't just blow in on the wind."

"That is why I brought two bottles of pomegranate juice," Reza said. "Once the Ministry of Agriculture approves the funding, next year I will bring dates produced in Ahvaz."

The corners of the King's mouth moved ever so slightly; it might have been a smile, or it might have been nothing at all.

The conversation continued for about fifteen minutes, all routine matters—provincial security, oil production reports, infrastructure applications. Reza cooperated throughout, stating figures slightly lower than reality, describing difficulties slightly higher than reality, and portraying his own abilities as resting exactly on the line between mediocre and passing.

This was a technical skill. If he spoke too well, the King would be alert; if he spoke too poorly, the King would replace him. What Reza wanted was the impression that made the King think, "This person can hold onto this territory, but he can't make any big waves."

Leaving the main hall, Reza encountered Miller in the palace corridor.

It was not a coincidence.

Before Reza entered the main hall, he had seen the American standing on the side of the corridor whispering with a royal secretary. He judged that this position had been chosen deliberately—it was the path that had to be taken from the side hall to the main hall, visible to anyone entering or leaving.

Miller, Deputy Chief of the CIA station in Tehran, fifty-one years old, from Boston, had been in Iran for six years. He spoke Persian more fluently than most diplomats and liked to wear dark blue suits, as he was today.

Reza took the initiative to step forward, extending his hand, his face wearing a thoughtless, carefree smile.

"Mr. Miller!" he said in English, his pronunciation carrying that Persian accent typical of the original Prince Reza. "We met last time in Ahvaz! I remember you!"

Miller shook his hand, responding with a professional smile: "Your Highness, of course I remember. The heat in Ahvaz is quite impressive."

"Yes, yes, yes, it's sweltering," Reza lowered his voice and leaned in slightly. "Tell me, Mr. Miller, you have many friends in Tehran. I would like to ask a favor—does the latest Carrier central air conditioning from the US have an official agent in Iran? The machine at my Governors Mansion has been broken for two years, and the repairman says the parts can't be bought. I want to replace it with a new one, but I don't know who to look for."

Miller looked at him, and in those one or two seconds, he performed a quick re-evaluation.

A prince, after finishing his palace visit, blocks an American intelligence officer in the hallway, and the first thing he asks about is an air conditioning agent.

This person... really posed no threat.

"I can ask the Commercial Counselor about this for you," Miller said, a tone of relief in his voice, as if something had just been let go. "Carrier has an authorized agent in Iran. I will have someone send the contact information to your secretary."